Of Typewriters and Imagination
by blaineywainey
Summary: All Blaine wants is a little inspiration; he doesn't think that's too much to ask for. But when inspiration arrives in the form of a magic typewriter that can make attractive young men appear out of thin air, he begins to realize that you should be careful what you wish for. A Ruby Sparks AU.
1. Chapter 1

_My, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, here I am with another new story to add to the cork board. I haven't lost hope for Live and Die, though I'm sure all of you have... I promise it will be finished eventually, but I just don't have the inspiration to do it now. I hope you all understand, and I hope that this multi-chaptered multitude of fluff will tide you over in the mean time._

_As per usual I currently have three chapters of this done, so if I post updates once a week it should theoretically be enough to stay on top of things. And as if that weren't enough, I have an amazing beta who's my right hand man on this story and also manages to inspire me to actually keep on writing. So here's a blatant shout out to Lonnie, a.k.a. **queertastique** on Tumblr. _

_Another shout out goes to my best friend Makenna (**flirtykurty** on Tumblr/ffnet) who originally came up with the idea when she saw the trailer for Ruby Sparks while I was busy getting popcorn in the lobby. In another dimension this would have been the collaboration we wrote together while lounging in a scented bath, but at the time it seemed too dark to pursue. Hopefully I've lightened it up enough for her (and everyone's) enjoyment. _

_Sorry long A/N is long but lastly thank you EVERYONE who continues to review on all my stories, I wish I could respond to every one of you but time is a fickle thing so I love you all and without further ado,_

_Read, review, and enjoy! :)_

* * *

"_Once upon a time..."_

"_The year was 2019 and..."_

"_Long ago in a galaxy far, far away..."_

Blaine slammed his laptop shut with a dissatisfying _click _and huffed a frustrated sigh, frowning at the teal and red betta fish lazily floating in its bowl as if this was all the fish's fault. Blaine opened his laptop again.

"_Once, there was a fish named Roxy. He did nothing but swim around all day. The end."_

"You and I are one and the same, buddy," Blaine muttered to his fish. Roxy blinked back unconcernedly.

"You could at least try to make yourself better company," Blaine said resentfully, "Considering I'm the one keeping you alive and all."

Roxy shook his fins a little, flashing them as if they were all he could offer.

Blaine shook his head and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. _You know you need to get out of the house when you start having conversations with your brainless fish, _he thought.

Blaine closed the Word Document window ("No, I _don't _want to save," he growled), and slumped out of the office, leaving Roxy and a distinct lack of inspiration behind.

He padded down the short hallway and into the living room of his tiny beach apartment, walked to the sliding doors that lead out to a fun-sized balcony, and slid the drapes open. It was a gorgeous late afternoon in Pismo Beach — the California sun had burned through the foggy morning marine layer and bathed the tiny town in bright light. In the distance, the ocean glittered invitingly.

Blaine wasn't in the mood for the beach today — living so close to it for two years tended to have that effect — but since staying cooped up inside his tiny nest didn't seem to be doing anything for his creative juices, he figured a little fresh air might do him some good.

He grabbed his keys from a small bowl on the kitchen counter, picked a cardigan from the coat closet, and left his apartment, locking the door behind him.

But no sooner had he made his way through the enclosed courtyard and out the gate onto the street than his phone started to sing Leslie Gore_. _

It had only managed to squeeze in "_Sunshine, lollipops and — " _when Blaine interrupted his ringtone with the press of a button. "Hello?"

"Hi Blainey," Cooper sing-songed, in the exact way he always did when he wanted something from Blaine.

"What do you want, Coop?" Blaine responded appropriately.

"Can't I call my baby brother every once in a while just to say hello?" Cooper asked, a little too defensively.

Blaine didn't grace this with an answer, hoping his brother could hear the way his eyebrows raised on the other line. He waved at the elderly shopkeeper of Quiltin' Cousins as he walked by.

"Okay so Nick didn't tell me he had to go home early today because of his and Jeff's anniversary — "

"Coop, come on!" Blaine whined pressing the button for the crosswalk, "It's my day off!"

"But Blainey, PizMo Café needs you!" Cooper said dramatically. "_I _need you."

"And _I _need days off so I can disappear into my cave and reemerge with a brilliant, best-selling novel," Blaine countered as he crossed the street.

"Bullshit," Cooper declared, "You're not hibernating, you're crossing the street right now, right in broad daylight!"

Panicking, Blaine snapped his head up and realized he was now on the corner of Pomeroy and Cabrillo, right in front of the Italian restaurant itself.

"You must be mistaken," Blaine said hurriedly, ducking around the corner and out of his brother's sight. "I'm at home. In the dark. Except for my laptop screen, which is open. Because I'm writing. At home."

"I didn't realize you lived at PizMo," came Cooper's voice from the open window beside Blaine's head as he leaned out to address his brother in person.

Blaine gave out a small shout of surprise, clutching his chest as he reluctantly pocketed his phone.

"Ah-_ha!_" Cooper declared, pointing dramatically at Blaine. "Caught red-handed!"

"Just because I'm out and about doesn't mean I'm willing to be your slave for the rest of the night," Blaine huffed.

"Come on Blainey, you're already here! You're out of the house anyway, why not pick up a couple of hours? I know you could use the extra money."

Blaine's heart sank guiltily, but he didn't relent.

"It's my day off," he said firmly, standing up a little taller.

Cooper shook his head as if supremely disappointed in his brother. "I'm just trying to help you out, little bro. I thought you'd appreciate me giving _you_ this shift when I could have given it to _anyone _else."

Blaine didn't fall for Cooper's pseudo-theatrics, not anymore. "And I'm sure _anyone else _will appreciate it more than me," he said finally, and picked up his walk down the street once more.

"You'll regret this!" Cooper hollered after him, and Blaine only waved genially over his shoulder.

He couldn't help but feel bad for not picking up the few hours' extra money, especially when his brother slipped him more than his fair share of tips whenever he was manager for the night. Blaine knew he probably would regret not having the extra money when he had to pay his share of the rent at the end of the month, which was still a teensy bit steep even though his parents already paid for most of it.

That was what he felt the worst about — the fact that his parents paid for his write-and-work-on-the-beach lifestyle. They insisted that it was the least they could do for their son, and that they wanted to aid his creative career in whatever way they could, but Blaine couldn't help but long for independence from his wacky, albeit doting, family.

_One day, _he thought, _one day I'll write the book of the century, and I'll be able to pay my own rent. _

That was, if he could even manage to come up with an _idea_ for the book of the century.

Blaine sighed, absentmindedly fingering the fabric of a dress on display as he passed. He didn't realize that following his passion would be so _difficult. _

You'd think that getting perfect grades on all his school papers would guarantee Blaine an easy ride to becoming a successful novelist, but it turned out inspiration was harder to catch than the clam who'd eaten Mr. Krabs' millionth dollar.

Blaine frowned, wondering if maybe he watched too many morning cartoons, and looked around, wondering where exactly he was aimlessly wandering to.

Without really realizing it he had been meandering in the direction of his favorite stationary shop, Pen on Paper. Figuring this was as good a place as any to hang around when he was lacking in inspiration, he crossed to the other side of the street and walked into the shop.

The tinkling of bells signaling his arrival never failed to bring a smile to his face; he'd been to all of the shops along the main street of Pismo Beach at least ten times each but this place was special to him, and the only shop he visited on a near-daily basis. The nearest thing Blaine could compare it to was being a kid in a candy store.

The store was blissfully empty, save for the clerk at the cash register in the back.

"Hey Burt," Blaine called, weaving through stacks of books and shelves of various notebooks, cards, and writing utensils on his way to the counter.

"Hey kiddo," Burt smiled, his eyes crinkling warmly. "How's the novel coming along?"

Blaine gave him a withered look. "Same as it was yesterday."

Burt smiled grimly, patting a sympathetic hand on Blaine's shoulder. "It'll happen soon."

"I hope so," Blaine laughed humorlessly. "I can't pay for my rent by serving pizza my whole life. I swear it takes hours to scrub the layer of pepperoni fumes off my skin every night."

Burt shrugged in understanding. "You know I'd let you work here if I could afford it," he offered, for what had to be the twentieth time.

No matter how many times he said it though, Blaine appreciated the gesture. "Thanks, Mr. Hummel."

Burt stared him down and Blaine realized his mistake. "Sorry!" he laughed, "I keep forgetting, Burt. _Burt, Burt, Burt._"

The shopkeeper laughed out loud and made a vague gesture with his hand. "Go look around, kid, I know you're dying to. We've got some new calligraphy pens up front."

Blaine bid him a temporary goodbye and began to wander around, picking up sketchbooks and flipping through, reveling in the smell of fresh, blank paper; he tested out the new calligraphy pens, thumbed through the small bin of old paperback books in the corner, and was about to return to the counter with a small notebook Burt would convince him to buy when something nestled on a desk between two bookshelves caught his attention.

He set the notebook aside and beelined toward the rickety old typewriter that he had _never _seen in his two years of visiting the shop, reaching his hand out to hover but not daring to touch it.

"Hey Burt," he said into the quiet of the shop, "Is this... new?" The word definitely didn't seem to fit as a description of the almost ancient relic.

Burt came to join Blaine at his side, gazing at the machine for a long while before taking a deep breath.

"No," he finally said, "But it's for sale."

Blaine wrenched his eyes from the typewriter to study Burt. He was looking down at it with a kind of reverence, as if he wished it weren't on the sales floor at all.

"Are you sure?" Blaine said hesitantly.

His voice seemed to bring Burt back to the present, and he smiled hollowly at Blaine. "Yeah. I uh — I've just had it for a while. Never used it. Time to let it go. It was my wife's," he trailed off.

Blaine's chest clenched painfully, remembering the night he and Burt had first gotten to talking. Small talk had easily evolved into a more personal discussion, and in response to being regaled by Blaine's description of his eccentric family, Burt had unveiled his bittersweet past.

He had met a beautiful woman named Elizabeth when she came into his car shop to get her Volkswagon fixed. He picked her up for their first date at the stationary shop she owned — the very one Blaine and Burt stood in now — and the rest was history.

They married after a year together and had a baby boy on the way when Elizabeth was killed in a car accident.

Blaine had left the shop that night two hours after closing time with a heavy heart and his first friend in a new town.

"It's been twenty-five years," Burt said thickly, and his voice brought Blaine back to the present. "And I can still see her with her nose buried in it, typing into the night and keeping me up. It's like the little guy we never had," he chuckled sadly.

Blaine grasped Burt's arm comfortingly.

"You don't have to sell it," he reasoned.

"I want to," Burt said softly.

"But if it still means so much to you it would be a shame for it to go into the wrong hands, or get broken. It's a beautiful typewriter, Burt. It deserves to be someplace where it'll matter."

His eyes fell upon the machine, which really was beautiful in its own way with its strange magnetic pull of attention, and felt Burt's gaze on him.

"I want you to have it," he said, startling Blaine.

"What? No, I — " Blaine stuttered helplessly, "M-Mr. Hummel, I couldn't — I can't. You need to keep it."

"I don't need it anymore, bud'," Burt said, shaking his head, "But I think you do."

"This?" Blaine laughed incredulously. "I don't need this, what would I do with it?" As he said it, though, he felt an almost gravitational pull, as though the instrument was trying to prove him wrong. He _really _wanted the typewriter.

"Maybe you do," Burt ventured. "Maybe it's what you need to kick-start that bestselling novel you keep talking about."

_Yes, _Blaine thought, _it's exactly what I need. _He scrutinized the typewriter longingly, still hesitant.

"It's what Elizabeth would have wanted," Burt reassured him, placing a hand on his back and then adding, almost inaudibly, "It's what Kurt would have wanted."

"Kurt?" Blaine wondered, sending a quizzical look Burt's way.

Burt's smile was small and sad as he said, "We were going to name him Kurt."

Blaine felt his heart fissure. "I can't," he whispered.

But Burt's smile spread into a large, genuine one, and he heaved the typewriter off the desk, carrying it to the cash register. "You _can,_" he insisted.

"I won't," Blaine protested, jogging behind to keep up.

"You _will,_" Burt said, taking out a sturdy flattened box from under the counter and folding it into shape.

"But it's got to be worth hundreds," Blaine tried, "I can't possibly afford it."

Burt carefully wrapped the typewriter in bubble wrap and lowered it into the box. "I'll give it to you for a hundred; I know you can afford that."

Blaine felt as though he were about to faint. He mouthed wordlessly at Burt, who threw in a few packs of typewriter paper and ink.

"Think of it as an investment in your bestseller-to-be," Burt said jovially, snatching Blaine's wallet from his hand, expertly picking out the credit card Blaine used every time he paid at the register.

Blaine squeaked in protest as Burt handed him back the wallet and thrust the box into his arms. "This thing is going to solve all your problems, kid."

"H-how could you possibly say that?" Blaine finally stuttered.

"I just know," Burt replied cryptically with a wink. "Now scram, I gotta close up soon."

Blaine didn't seem capable of moving, so Burt steered him to the front of the shop and pushed him out of the door in the direction of his apartment.

"Have fun!" Burt called, his voice echoing in the sunset-stained air.

Still not quite sure what had just happened, Blaine lugged the "solution to all his problems" up the sloping street to his apartment, collapsing onto the couch when he finally managed to unlock his door one-handed.

Once his chest had stopped heaving, he got to his feet and procured a take out box of last night's Thai food from the fridge. As his makeshift dinner heated up on a plate in the microwave, he strolled to the table where he'd dumped the typewriter.

Maybe a change of medium _was _what he needed. The light of the laptop screen was a bit grating at times, and the internet was an ever-present distraction on a computer. Maybe there was some truth in what Burt had said...

He started as the microwave beeped loudly, proudly announcing that its job was done. Blaine grabbed the plate and a clean fork, placed them off to the side on his office desk, then went back out to the living room to retrieve the typewriter, too.

He cast aside his laptop onto the loveseat in the office, the typewriter replacing it with an unceremonious thump and startling Roxy out of stillness in his bowl. Blaine studied the machine for a while, chewing on his food contemplatively, before putting his plate aside and deciding to at least set it up with the paper and ink Burt had provided.

What Blaine had failed to remember however, was that he didn't have the slightest idea how a typewriter worked.

After half an hour of fumbling back and forth between bites of food, the eHow instructions on his laptop, and the various buttons and covers and knobs and margins, the typewriter was ready to go.

Pulse thrumming excitedly, Blaine pulled his chair in closer, took another bite of beef satay, and poised his fingers on the keys.

Immediately his mind flew to his version of Elizabeth Hummel (long brown hair, maybe, slender, long fingers, rosy skin), hunched over this very machine and typing her thoughts, or a story, or memoirs, or lists of preparations for baby Kurt; Burt trying to read over her shoulder, and Elizabeth swatting him away playfully.

When Blaine's fingers finally began to move it was as if the keys themselves were pulling his fingers down, rhythmically, clumsily, but certain and steadily flowing.

At four in the morning, as if surfacing from underwater, Blaine let out a gust of breath and ripped his fingers away from the keys, gazing at the mess of cast-aside, ink-stained paper all around him. These were nothing but mere brainstorms; from what he could see there were descriptions and brainwaves, little snippets here and there like _"tall, 5'10"," "passions: music, singing? yes. fashion, cooking," "heavenly voice, angelic looks," "fluent in French," "sarcastic and snappy at worst, fiercely loyal and courageous at best."_

In the typewriter, however, was the final result of six hours' work; nothing more than a few sentences, but they were the words that would change everything.

"_Kurt Hummel is an extraordinary man. _

"_Born under unusual and death-defying circumstances, he was brought up by his kind-hearted father and without the mother who'd birthed him with her last breaths. _

"_I've known him all my life, yet know nothing about him. For all I know we're just two people who share the same house, roommates and nothing more. _

"_But Kurt Hummel is too extraordinary not to be known inside and out. In a few hours I will wake up with the sole goal of getting to know him, and in a few days I will fall in love with him but I won't tell him until a few weeks after that. After a month I'll know everything about him, everything down to his set jaw, his toothy smile, his long fingers and thick, impeccably coiffed hair, his porcelain skin and fathomless, just-this-shade-of-blue-green-grey eyes. It'll take me an endless amount of time to memorize everything there is to know about Kurt yet somehow he'll know everything about me with just a glance, because I wear my heart on my sleeve and because he's known me for what seems like forever and that's just how he is. _

"_But for now I'll keep you in suspense with pretentious first-person, present-tense narrative. _

"_This is the story of how I met, loved, and learned the extraordinary Kurt Hummel."_

Satisfied for the first time in two long years, Blaine pushed away from the desk, fell onto the loveseat, and was asleep before his head hit the couch cushions.

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm being a good writer and updating regularly, as promised \o/ An extended thank you again to Lonnie (**queertastique**) for being an awesome beta; his comments on this chapter made me feel so super special :3 I'm currently working on Chapter 4 so I'm way ahead and you can expect another update next Monday!_

_Read, review, and enjoy!_

* * *

Blaine woke up with stiff limbs at, according to the digital clock on his office desk, 8:16am. _Where _he woke up was immediately apparent — he must have passed out after his six-hour brainstorming session on Burt's typewriter. _Why _he woke up, though, took a few moments to register.

As he stretched (mostly unsuccessfully, since the loveseat was so small), the scent that he easily recognized as his favorite breakfast enveloped his nose, and he breathed in happily. There was nothing he loved more than being woken up by the smell of someone cooking.

But just then, he bolted upright, vision swimming in a head rush. For the scent of cooking to be in his apartment there had to be _someone cooking it. _

Blaine's heart pounded hard as the wheels in his brain spun quickly. Who could possibly be in his home? Only Cooper had a spare key, and he sometimes dropped in unannounced but never before noon, simply because he was never awake before then, and he'd certainly never made breakfast for Blaine on any of these occasions. Maybe he lent the key to their mom? She was the only one who knew how to make Blaine's favorite breakfast comprising chocolate chip pancakes and maple-glazed bacon. But unlike Cooper his parents always called before coming over, even if it was to give only five minutes' notice.

What if it wasn't someone with a key? Had he forgotten to lock the door last night, distracted by the typewriter? What if a stranger was in his kitchen… or someone _dangerous?_

_But why would a stranger cook pancakes and bacon for me? _Blaine wondered, bewildered.

The only way to find out, he reasoned, was to see for himself. So he straightened his stiff jeans and wrinkled polo, and sneaked cautiously out to the kitchen.

At the sight that met his eyes, Blaine was sure he had to be dreaming.

The scent of chocolate and maple syrup was even stronger here than it was in the office. The sink was stacked with various measuring cups and stirring spoons; on the counter beside it was a telltale bowl containing pancake batter. A cup of maple syrup glaze stood by the stovetop, and the refrigerator door was open and disguising whoever was rummaging through it.

Time moved very slowly and very quickly all at once in the moment that the person in his house straightened up and out of the fridge.

Blaine nearly collapsed.

That was definitely _not_ his mom.

The man, whose back was to Blaine, was humming to himself, wearing nothing but Blaine's favorite NYU sweatshirt (where and _when _had he gotten a hold of that?) and navy blue boxer-briefs (_Don't stare, Blaine, don't stare, oh my God), _and unwrapping the fresh package of bacon Blaine had bought two days ago.

But then the guy turned around to grab a spoon from the silverware drawer, and Blaine didn't even think twice about why he knew where the silverware drawer was when he finally got a good look at the intruder's face.

It felt like Blaine's stomach dropped to the floor and was lodged up in his throat at the same time; his brain struggled to keep up with what his eyes were screaming at him: _set jaw, long fingers, thick hair, porcelain skin, just-this-shade-of-blue-green-grey eyes. _

"Kurt?" Before choked, not even fully registering what he was saying.

The man looked up and smiled brightly (_toothy smile)._ "Oh good, you're up," he said in a heavenly voice (_heavenly voice!)_, and Blaine felt his knees wobble dangerously as he backed up instinctively. "You fell asleep in your office _again, _but it looks like you've made progress, if the state of your desk is anything to go by." His nose wrinkled in a way that seemed to come straight out of Blaine's imagination.

But the man's — Kurt's? Was it... no, surely not, it couldn't be, could it? — face softened in concern at Blaine's frozen shock. "Honey, what's wrong? Are you feeling okay?"

The man (it _had _to be Kurt) put down the bowl of batter and made his way over to Blaine, who was still immobile.

"Blaine?" he said slowly, and Blaine's breath suddenly stuttered.

"I-I'm dreaming," he said, voice cracking into a whisper as he tried to convince himself, "I worked too hard last night and I'm having a crazy dream because of it. This kind of stuff happens to authors all the time, right?"

Kurt's brow furrowed as he reached a hand up to feel Blaine's forehead, but Blaine ducked out of his way instinctively.

"Blaine, what's the matter with you?" Kurt said, sounding frightened now. "It's me, it's _Kurt. _Your roommate?_"_

"I don't have a roommate," Blaine replied automatically, starting to hyperventilate because maybe he _had _forgotten about a roommate he'd had all along. "This is a one bedroom apartment," he reasoned dazedly.

Kurt chuckled incredulously. "Um, yeah, but we've known each other forever so it's not like sharing a king-sized bed is a big deal. You sleep in your office half the time anyway."

Blaine gaped, head reeling. He shared a bed with an _angel _like _him?_

"Unless... you've changed your mind about that?" Kurt said, self-consciously crossing his arms, and Blaine was overcome with the strong desire to hold him and prove that statement wrong, but all he could do was open and close his mouth, unformed words stuck in his throat.

_This is Kurt, _he thought hysterically. _This is _actually _Kurt. This is who I spent six hours on last night. No, don't laugh at that. Now is not the time for sex jokes, Blaine. _

Kurt recovered from his temporary insecurity and glared at Blaine with what could only be described as a perfect bitchface. "Blaine, I'm not in the mood for your stupid jokes, especially when I'm making _breakfast _for you. Can't a guy make breakfast for his roommate every once in a while without getting shit for it? God."

He turned around, returning his attention to cooking pancakes and bacon. "Go get your head on straight, and I suggest you change your attitude by the time the food is done otherwise you'll be left to feed on half-stale satay you left on the desk last night."

Blaine swayed dangerously on his feet for a moment before dashing back into his office, picking up his cellphone with fumbling fingers and speed-dialing #2 on his keypad as he retreated under the desk.

The phone rang for what felt like forever, but finally a very sleepy Cooper picked up.

"Blainey, what have I told you about calling before noon?"

"_Coop,_" Blaine whispered hoarsely. "There's a magical guy in my house who says his name is Kurt but I think I'm the one who created him."

Cooper was silent on the other line, and Blaine wondered if he had fallen back asleep.

"_Help!_" he emphasized.

"Did you try pointing at him?" Cooper finally suggested.

"_God damn it Cooper really _— yeah, sure. But he keeps insisting that he's known me forever, but I just wrote about him last night. _Jesus fucking Christ I just wrote an imaginary character into my real life, this is why I never write in first person _—"

"Look little bro," Cooper interrupted cautiously, "Firstly, you're lucky I had to take the opening shift at PizMo today, otherwise I wouldn't have picked up. Secondly, I know I've told you to live a little from time to time, and I still stand by that, because it can't be healthy to marinate in your thoughts and your laptop all day. But you need to trust me when I say that hallucinatory drugs are _not _the way to go. I know you're desperate for a story but let me tell you about this one guy I knew —"

"Cooper!" Blaine said firmly. "I didn't _take _anything. I woke up, and he was wearing my sweatshirt and some underwear —" Blaine gulped — "And was going on about how we've known each other forever, and we sleep in the same bed, and breakfast and roommates and I don't know what the _hell _is going on, I think I might be going batshit _crazy_."

Cooper began to speak on the other line but just then, Kurt walked into the room, carrying a plate in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, cocking one _very attractive _hip to the side in a way that Blaine hadn't even thought up yet. Blaine scrambled up from under the desk, bumping his head and violently swearing before he managed to get to his feet. Cooper didn't seem to notice, and was still blabbering on about the dangers of hallucinogens.

When Blaine said nothing, only stared owlishly at him, Kurt smiled coyly from under his eyelashes.

"Your favorite," he said softly.

Awestruck, Blaine hung up the phone, cutting Cooper off mid-sentence, and accepted the plate from Kurt, breath hitching imperceptibly at how _real _the brushing of their fingers was in the transaction.

"We need to go," Blaine blurted suddenly, setting down the plate beside the abandoned Thai food from last night and moving past Kurt out of the office.

He crossed the hall into his bedroom and pulled out a drawer, expecting to find wadded up T-shirts but instead found pairs of neatly folded jeans that _definitely _weren't his.

"What —" he began to ask out loud, but thought better of it, and rummaged around until he found a somewhat-suitable outfit to change into.

He was halfway through getting his crumpled shirt from yesterday off when Kurt's voice sounded from the doorway.

"Blaine, what the hell is going on?"

Blaine jumped in surprise, stumbling and nearly falling over before he could get the polo off of his head, and he was about to tell Kurt off for entering the bedroom while he was changing but that proved to be a difficult case to make since Kurt was still strolling around in his _underwear. _

"We have to go," Blaine repeated, hopping a little as he stripped off his jeans and replaced them with striped shorts.

"Go where?" Kurt asked, handing Blaine his t-shirt before striding to the drawer Blaine had tried first and pulling out a pair of stark white skinny-jeans.

"Out," Blaine managed in between sharp inhales of breath. "Anywhere."

Kurt had barely managed to button his jeans before Blaine was pulling him out of the bedroom.

"Blaine!" Kurt cried, affronted, "I can't go out in public like _this!" _Blaine didn't seem to hear him or really care. He hastily gathered up his papers from last night and stuffed them into his pocket before grabbing Kurt's arm again and attempting to whisk him out of the apartment. Kurt had to grab the keys on the way out because Blaine had completely surpassed them.

"I will _not _follow you _anywhere, _Blaine Anderson, unless you tell me _where we're going,_" Kurt said firmly, though the way Blaine was pulling him along, he didn't seem to have very much say in the matter.

"Have to make sure you're real," Blaine muttered, half to himself as they reached the street and began jogging down the hill toward town. "— Not a hallucination."

"Halluci — Blaine, I'm _not _a hallucination!"

"That's exactly what my hallucination _would _say!" Blaine said triumphantly, a manic gleam in his eyes.

"I've been your roommate for two years and I've known you since forever," Kurt said, as if it would make a difference. "Did you knock your head on something and get amnesia? Should I be taking you to the doctor?"

Blaine ignored this, as well as the traffic light of the abandoned street, crossing despite the signal telling him not to, with Kurt in tow.

Cooper was just tying the apron around his waist when Blaine and Kurt stumbled into PizMo, panting and out of breath.

"Hey little bro," Cooper smiled widely, seemingly oblivious to Blaine's plight. "What brings you to this neck of the woods this early? And I think our phones have a bad connection or something, I was talking and all of a sudden you weren't there! Weird, huh?"

"Can you see him?" Blaine breathed, looking over at Kurt and fearing whichever answer Cooper might give.

"I'm sorry, Cooper," Kurt glared at Blaine, "Your brother seems to have forgotten to take his medication today."

Cooper frowned. "Do I know you?"

Kurt glanced at him skeptically. "I'm Blaine's roommate," he said slowly.

Cooper suddenly brightened. "Blainey! You didn't tell me you'd gotten a _roommate! _I mean, your place is a little _small, _but it's about time, I think," he said, wiggling his eyebrows at Kurt.

"So you _can _see him?" Blaine squeaked.

"Well, _yeah,_" Cooper said, widening his eyes and nodding at Kurt. "I didn't realize _this _was what you were talking about over the phone earlier. Why were you panicking so much? You've scored yourself a hot piece of ass here, little bro," he stage-whispered.

Blaine looked in horror from his brother to Kurt. He didn't know whether the fact that this was _actually _happening to him made the situation better or worse. "Oh god," he finally murmured, eyes scanning Kurt up and down.

But it seemed as if Kurt had had enough. He grabbed one of the glasses of water set on the nearest table and promptly threw it into Blaine's face.

"Satisfied you're not _dreaming _now?" he heard Kurt snarl, and he blinked through icy cold eyelashes just in time to see Kurt storming out of the Café.

"You'd better go get him back Blainey," Cooper suggested, "That one's a keeper. Try talking really loud, it'll get your point across a lot better."

Though he planned to speak in relatively normal tones, Blaine took the first half of his brother's advice and followed Kurt out onto the street, trying to calm his frazzled nerves.

He found Kurt leaning against the brick wall where Blaine had hid from Cooper yesterday afternoon.

"What's going on with you?" Kurt asked as soon as Blaine sheepishly rounded the corner, hysteria now buried along with the hands in his pockets.

Blaine shook his head stupidly in response.

"Are you feeling okay?" Kurt asked, raising his hand to touch Blaine's forehead once more and this time, Blaine closed his eyes and stayed put. His heart beat madly at the warm touch of Kurt's fingertips to his wet, icy forehead, felt the lines there soften as the tension in his brow dissipated.

"I think I'm losing my mind," he said truthfully.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Kurt smile. "That tends to happen when you only get four hours of sleep.

Blaine laughed weakly, leaning into the hand that was now cradling his cheek.

"Sorry I didn't eat your pancakes," he said weakly.

"There's more batter at home," Kurt said with a tight smile.

"Where did you get the recipe?" Blaine asked. "No one but my mom knows how to make those."

Kurt opened his mouth as if the answer was obvious, but frowned slightly.

"I — I don't know," he said, sounding very confused indeed.

Blaine remembered the papers crammed into his pocket and took them out, smoothing them and reading them over. He swallowed nervously.

"How did you know that's my favorite breakfast?" Blaine tried again.

Kurt seemed to know the answer to this. "Because I've known you forever."

Blaine's eyes referenced the paper where it read, _he's known me for what seems like forever._

"You keep saying that but what does it _mean_?" Blaine pressed. "When did we meet?"

Once again, Kurt floundered, and Blaine noticed that nowhere in his notes did it state the answer to his question. "That's — I — well, I don't exactly..." Kurt's eyes were panicked when he met Blaine's. "I don't know."

Blaine shifted through the papers quickly.

"Who did you live with as a kid?" Blaine asked. _He was brought up by his kind-hearted father..._

"With my dad," Kurt responded, eyeing Blaine suspiciously.

"_Where _did you live as a kid?" No notes on this.

"What is this, twenty questions?".

"Just go with it. What schools did you go to?" Nothing about education, either.

Kurt clutched the side of his head, brow furrowing.

"What languages did you learn?" _Fluent in French._

"Je parle français," Kurt responded automatically, looking a little more hopeful.

"What are your hobbies?" Blaine nodded, egging him on, already knowing the three that Kurt would list.

"Singing, fashion, and cooking," Kurt recited, as if he had memorized the words from a textbook.

"Anything else?"

Kurt thought for a moment. "Not really."

"What's your favorite thing to cook?"

"I can't, there are..."

"What do your favorite shoes look like?"

"I don't —"

"What's your favorite song? What do you use to style your hair in the morning? Do you sleep on your stomach or your back?"

"_Stop!_" Kurt yelled, holding his head, "Stop, please Blaine, you're upsetting me," he continued, on the edge of hysterics. "Why can't I answer any of your questions?"

Blaine cautiously took Kurt's hands away from his head, holding them in his own as if they would vanish at any second. "Because I haven't thought of the answers yet."

"_What?_" Kurt hissed, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

"I think..." Blaine took a shaky breath, looking into Kurt's eyes. "I think I created you."

Kurt took his hands back, flattening them against the wall. "What do you mean?"

Blaine straightened all of the papers he'd typed up last night and handed them to Kurt.

"This is what you were working on last night?" Kurt asked, quickly scanning over the words.

Blaine nodded.

"So you wrote about me, big whoop," Kurt said, thrusting the stack of papers back in Blaine's hands nonchalantly, but his face was flushed pink.

"You don't get it," Blaine insisted. "I didn't write _about _you. You weren't my inspiration; you were the _result _of my inspiration. I pictured you in my head and typed you out and now here you are, standing in front of me." Kurt was shaking his head, clearly disagreeing, but Blaine pressed on. "Think about it, what do you know about yourself other than what's written here?"

He waved the stack of paper again, and Kurt took it back, studying the words more carefully.

"Well that's easy," Kurt scoffed, "I know everything about you."

"I didn't ask what you knew about me," Blaine said gently. "I asked what you knew about _you."_

Kurt looked down at the papers one more time before slowly handing them back to Blaine.

"Nothing," Kurt whispered. "I'm nothing but what's written on those papers."

"Kurt —"

"So what, I'm just — living for your purposes, then?" Kurt snapped. "Brainless and stupid until you write me otherwise?"

"Obviously not," Blaine said, trying to placate him. " I haven't written anything about what's happened this morning, I haven't _told _you what to say, have I? I didn't make you throw icy water in my face. That was all you."

Kurt wilted visibly, and slumped back against the wall, sliding down it to sit on the pavement and wincing slightly as he smoothed his white jeans. "I'm lost," he confessed.

"We're in the same boat on that account," said Blaine, taking a seat beside him.

Kurt snorted indelicately. "What's the use of two people on a boat when they're both lost?"

Blaine chuckled. "See? You thought of that witty line all on your own."

"Thanks for the condescension," Kurt remarked, but when he looked up at Blaine and smiled it was appreciative.

"So we're both crazy and we're both lost," Blaine summed up, "I guess that means we'll have to figure this out together."

Kurt sighed. "It appears that way, yes."

"For now," Blaine suggested, "How about some brain food?"

"Your breakfast's cold by now," Kurt said dejectedly, glancing up the street to where the apartment complex resided.

"I heard there's some fresh food in the kitchen," Blaine said, nudging Kurt with his elbow.

Kurt smiled and rolled his eyes as they stood. "Lead the way."

* * *

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_Shit guys, I'm sorry, I forgot to post on Monday! D: I promise this chapter will be worth the wait though, okay?_

_Also, I'm falling behind on writing, but I'm still pushing myself to update regularly. I'm giving a fair warning though; school starts next week and I won't have as much time to dedicate to my fanfiction, and I'll have a lot of writing commitments for school that I'll have to fulfill (Journalism, Philosophy, and Media Studies, oh my!) Have faith though, I have the rest of the story planned out, an awesome beta named **Lonnie** (queertastique), and beautiful readers and reviewers like you so hopefully I'll stay motivated.l_

_For future reference, the song in this chapter is Grace Kelly by Mika. _

_So here it is! Read, review, and enjoy!_

* * *

"Oooooooh..."

"Shit, Kurt —"

"Blaine, fucking —"

"What do you need?"

"Just move so I can — yeah."

"I'm sorry," Blaine muttered, resisting the urge to reach up and pet at where he had accidentally swung the bathroom's cabinet door into Kurt's head. "I don't normally share a bathroom. As you can see."

Kurt quickly opened another cabinet and pulled out yet another face cream to add to the many already piled at his sink (where had those all even _come _from?). He squeezed a little onto his hand and rubbed at the red spot efficiently.

"It's fine," he said icily, "I keep forgetting that I'm not just a figment of your imagination and therefore prone to actual physical harm."

Blaine sighed and plopped his toothbrush into the cup by his own sink. "I wish you would stop doing that."

Kurt, despite their truce outside of PizMo Café, had been resolutely impassive toward Blaine all day. After a quiet, contemplative breakfast between the two of them, Kurt had wordlessly wandered over to the couch, picked up a book on the coffee table that Blaine didn't remember putting there, and began to read. Blaine had to remind himself that this was probably commonplace; Kurt _was_ his roommate after all, and even though it was news to Blaine, Kurt undoubtedly had a schedule etched in his brain that stemmed from the idea that he had lived in this apartment for two years.

Blaine had pondered this as he climbed into the shower, wondering just how much Kurt knew and acted based on what Blaine had written about him. How much power did Blaine's words have? _Apparently enough to make clothes magically appear in my dresser._ Not to mention that many of Kurt's things just happened to be lying around the apartment. Blaine sighed. If he wrote more about Kurt, would Kurt adopt the changes immediately, or would they take a while to solidify? Would Kurt accept them as truth, or know that they had been put there artificially?

But the thought of being able to craft Kurt to his liking made Blaine uncomfortable, as if he were bending the will of another living, breathing person who _obviously _had a mind of his own.

Blaine didn't know what to do; didn't know how to respond to this sudden universal tilt. If he could create an entire _human being, _what _else _could he change?

By the time Blaine had gotten out of the shower, he still wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't dreaming.

The two of them went about seemingly usual daily routines, for a lack of knowing what else to do with each other. But whenever their paths crossed Kurt had the tendency to either remain eerily quiet or lash out.

When Blaine apologized for brushing past Kurt's shoulder as they crossed in the narrow hallway, Kurt glared. "You don't have to _apologize_; it's not as if I'm _real _or anything."

And when Blaine joined Kurt where he was watching television on the couch, picking up the remote to switch away from the commercial break that was on, Kurt rolled his eyes and strode out of the room. "Don't mind me," he called as he left, "I wasn't watching anything important."

Blaine was still trying to figure out what was so important about an ad for StateFarm insurance when he walked into his office to find Kurt feeding Roxy later that afternoon.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of our pet," he snapped when Blaine opened his mouth to thank him, and fled the room before Blaine could close it uselessly.

Now, in the bathroom and in pajamas, Blaine finally decided it was time to break whatever wall Kurt had decidedly put up between them.

"Stop doing _what?_" Kurt asked, feigning innocence while rubbing yet another cream into his face.

"Blaming me for whatever mess we've got ourselves into here," Blaine said, staring at Kurt's face through the mirror.

"Oh so I'm just your _mess _now, am I?" Kurt said, throwing a well-practiced glare in Blaine's direction and rubbing his face more vigorously.

Blaine's mouth twisted furiously as his whole body moved with the short breath he took. "Screw this," he finally said, abandoning his untouched floss and heading out into the bedroom.

He roughly pulled the covers back, turned off his lamp, and curled up facing the window and away from the bathroom door.

For ten more minutes only the clicks of various bottles opening and closing and the occasional rush of water from the sink punctuated the silence. Eventually, the light in the bathroom switched off, and Blaine felt the other side of the mattress sink as Kurt got into the king-sized bed, turned off his lamp, and settled under the covers.

The silence was deafening.

Even their breathing was silent, and the usual distant sound of waves rushing to and fro was muted by the closed window.

Blaine's anger trickled away as the seconds ticked on, leaving a knot of guilt in his stomach. He knew he hadn't done anything to upset Kurt, but could Blaine really blame him for acting the way he was? Blaine _had _written him that way… And aside from that, Blaine knew that he would be disgruntled too if he found out that everything he thought he knew wasn't real.

Blaine wasn't the only one whose world had turned upside down today.

"You awake?" Blaine finally said quietly.

"Can't sleep," Kurt replied darkly.

"Me neither," Blaine breathed, relief flooding his voice.

A short silence passed in which Blaine scrambled in his head for things to say, but he was spared of the task when Kurt spoke up first.

"Sorry for being a bitch today," he sighed.

Blaine stomped down the automatic _"It's okay"_ that came to his lips, choosing his words more carefully. "I get it," he said instead, "And it's weird for me, too."

"It's just frustrating," Kurt admitted, and Blaine wished he could see his face but was too frozen to turn around, "To know everything about you while I know practically nothing about myself. I don't know if there even _is _anything to know about me... I don't know. You can see why that might make someone feel like a waste of space."

Blaine forced himself to move, rolling over and tugging gently on Kurt's arm until he did the same.

"You're _not _a waste of space," Blaine said firmly, squeezing Kurt's arm as if to try and prove the statement true. "I don't think you are."

"Up until today I didn't exist to you," Kurt mumbled.

"Up until today I didn't realize you were exactly what I needed," Blaine blurted, glad for the darkness so Kurt couldn't see him blush. Hearing Burt's words from his lips halted him, but he continued. "I wrote about you for a reason."

"And what reason is that?"

Blaine bit his bottom lip. "I don't know yet."

Kurt took a deep breath. "So I guess that's the part where we work together."

Blaine chuckled softly "We can't work together if you're snapping at me all day."

Kurt pulled his arm out of Blaine's grasp to cover his face and groan. "I told you I was sorry."

"I forgive you," Blaine smiled, prying Kurt's hands away and grinning at him.

"Why do you look at me like that?" Kurt asked indignantly.

"Like what?" Blaine blinked.

"Like I'm the greatest thing that's ever happened to the world. Or something." Kurt rolled his eyes, but Blaine was oblivious to the sarcasm.

"Because I'm pretty sure you are," Blaine said honestly.

Kurt found Blaine's eyes in the darkness, flickering slightly, like he was looking for something. Blaine's chest fluttered under the speculation, breath hitching imperceptibly at the gleam in those fathomless eyes.

Before he could tell whether or not Kurt found what he was looking for, the other man rolled away and got up.

"Where are you going?" Blaine asked, sitting up and leaning into the empty spot on the bed that Kurt left.

"Can't sleep," Kurt replied, repeating his declaration from earlier. "I'm going out."

He turned back around to just in time to see Blaine physically slump, and smiled before continuing. "Don't look so down in the dumps. You're coming too."

Blaine instantly brightened and leaped out of bed, flicking on a lamp and striding to the dresser. "Where are we going? Practically everywhere will be closed by — oh," he stuttered to a stop when he realized he had opened a drawer to find unfamiliar clothes again.

Kurt patiently opened the drawer next to it as he sat down beside Blaine. "Your clothes are on this side."

"Right," Blaine muttered to himself, "Roommate."

"We'll work at it together," Kurt reassured him. "One step at a time."

"Deal," Blaine agreed. "Step one: my clothes are on the right."

"It'll be easy," Kurt said haughtily, "If you see clothes that are even halfway decent, you're in the wrong place."

Blaine made a scandalized face as he threw the shirt he had picked out at Kurt's face. "My clothes are fine, thank you very much."

"You own at _least_ thirty bowties," Kurt said dryly, throwing the shirt back.

"It was a _stage,_" Blaine insisted defensively. "In _high school. _I never wear them anymore."

"Yeah, that's what you _always _say," Kurt blurted without thinking. Blaine ducked his head.

"Right," he said with an awkward smile.

"Sorry," Kurt said quickly, "I should stop doing that."

"No, don't," Blaine insisted. "Step two: my new roommate knows everything about me."

"_Literally _everything," Kurt laughed, looking down as if mildly embarrassed.

Blaine squinted at him. "Wait. Like, _everything _everything?"

Kurt looked slightly uncomfortable, though he was still smiling as he started to busy himself with the clothes in front of him. "_You're_ the one who wrote that word into my brain. So yes, I know _everything _everything." Blaine thought for a moment, and then a slow smile spread its way across his face.

"So you know exactly how big my dick is?"

"_What part of 'everything' don't you understand, Blaine," _Kurt spluttered, voice raising a pitch and face turning a violent shade of pink.

"I think I could get used to this," Blaine laughed wildly. "You know whether I have a six-pack or not?"

"Blaine —"

"And what my type is?"

"Dear God."

"And what kinks I have?"

"That's it!" Kurt said, blushing even more heavily than before and standing up with clothes in hand. "You're uninvited from my nighttime stroll. Go back to bed."

"No, wait, I'm sorry!" Blaine snickered, not sounding very sorry at all as he clutched at Kurt's leg to keep him from walking away. "I'll be good, I promise."

Kurt sighed heavily, cocking his hip to one side and crossing his arms. "You know what this means, right? Me knowing everything about you?"

"What does it mean?" Blaine asked, looking imploringly up at him.

Kurt smirked. "You have a lot of catching up to do," he said, winking slyly before turning on his heel and going into the bathroom to change, leaving Blaine's head spinning ever so slightly.

—

"Are you sure you're not a hallucination?" Blaine sighed as they walked down the street through the brisk, nighttime ocean breeze. Kurt had disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes and came out looking even more like the vision in Blaine's head, hair styled to perfection and clothes that went together seamlessly.

"Can a hallucination do this?" Kurt countered, poking him sharply in the ribs.

"_Ow_ — no, but I can hallucinate the pain!" Blaine reasoned.

Kurt shook his head fondly as they exited the apartment complex. "So where are we going?" he asked, slipping his arm through Blaine's as if it were commonplace to do so.

Blaine stiffened at the unexpected contact, and Kurt shrank back immediately. "Sorry, I forgot. It just felt... I can't explain it."

"It's fine," Blaine breathed nervously, pulling Kurt's arm back to lace with his own, "I've read Frankenstein. I know how important a creator-creation relationship is."

"Did you just compare me to _Frankenstein?_" Kurt hissed, pulling his arm back, clearly offended.

"Frankenstein's _monster, _actually, Frankenstein is the scientist," Blaine explained.

Kurt didn't seem to be comforted by this, and kept his arms crossed and decidedly away from Blaine's.

Blaine smiled, nudging Kurt's shoulder until he smiled too. "By the way, it was _your _idea to go out so _you _decide where we're going. How much do you even know about Pismo?"

"I _live _here, Blaine," Kurt glared.

"Well when was the last time you went to... Pismo Yogurt, then?" Blaine pointed out the first shop that caught his eye.

Kurt glared even harder. "I don't remember," he muttered, but before Blaine could say anything he continued. "It's hard to explain. I _know _I've been here and I recognize everything I see, but I don't have any actual memories attached to them. Does that make sense?"

"I guess," Blaine decided, trying again to link his arm with Kurt's. Kurt side-eyed him suspiciously, but allowed his arm to be taken.

"So how does it work?" he asked.

"How does _what_ work?"

"I mean," Kurt pondered his words. "Was it your overactive imagination that brought me to life? Or was it your magic typewriter?"

Blaine hadn't thought about this. "Well, probably a combination of both. Though nothing I've written on my laptop has ever come to life."

"Maybe none of your characters have ever been as _lively _as I am," Kurt returned.

"Well aren't you just _so _punny," Blaine chortled.

"You bring out the best in me," Kurt said brightly.

Their eyes met briefly, and the pair of them grinned before looking away.

"So I don't know if my spur of the moment plan is really working out," Kurt sighed. "I forgot that everything closes at ten in this city."

"Not _everything,_" Blaine said, smiling slowly as they passed by the only bar in the beach town. Kurt made to keep walking, but Blaine used the grip on his arm to pull him back. Kurt looked at him, then at the entrance to the bar, then back at him, eyes wide and mouth set in a thin line.

"Please tell me you're joking," he stated resolutely.

Blaine gave him a wide, hopeful smile.

"Blaine Anderson, we are _not _going into a biker bar," Kurt huffed, eyeing the motorcycles parked on the road nervously.

"Oh, we so totally _are,_" Blaine said, wiggling his head tauntingly as he dragged Kurt through the doors.

"ID?" grumbled a tired-looking bouncer in the tiny entrance hall of the bar. Blaine showed his proudly and Kurt flashed his impatiently before he was towed away by a very enthusiastic Blaine over to the bar.

They were bombarded with the pungent scent of combined beer and smoke as they made their way through the crowd that consisted of mainly burly men in various shades of leather with the occasional nervous couple sitting at tables here and there. After pushing against a rather rambunctious gathering of dangerous-looking men they finally scored two seats at the bar.

"I hate you," Kurt said plainly, elbows bent and arms held aloft with his nose in the air as if he were reluctant to touch anything. Before Blaine could respond the bottle-blonde bartender had sidled over to them.

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he smiled widely.

"I'll have a rum and coke... Sam," Blaine ordered, squinting at the name tag on his apron.

"A Shirley Temple please," Kurt said airily, "I'm designated driver tonight."

"Bullshit," Blaine declared. "He'll have an Appletini."

"Coming right up," Sam beamed, whisking away. Kurt raised an eyebrow at Blaine.

"Maybe you know me more than you originally thought."

Blaine wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, everything about you _is _technically from up here," he said, tapping his head.

"How many times are you going to play that card?" Kurt groaned exasperatedly.

"As many times as you play the 'I know everything about you' card," Blaine countered as Sam placed their drinks in front of them.

"To your overactive imagination," Kurt said with a wry smile, holding out his glass.

Blaine clinked it with his own. "To magic typewriters."

—

Two drinks later, Blaine was drunk and encouraging Kurt to join him.

"Another drink for this beautiful man right here," Blaine insisted to Sam, who was looking between them bemusedly.

"No," Kurt said firmly. "One of us has to steer your drunken ass home tonight, and it's obviously not going to be you. Unless Sam here is willing to take on the task."

Sam held up his hands defensively. "Not in the job description."

"Be a good sport, Kurt," Blaine slurred, ticking the "t" of his name sharply on his tongue.

"No thanks," Kurt said, but Blaine thought he could see his resolve beginning to fade. That could have just been the swirly effect everything in his line of vision had taken on, though.

He patted the shoulder of the beefy man next to him congenially. "Sir," he said, as the man turned around with a wary look on his face, "Please help me convince this good man to have another drink."

Kurt looked as if he highly disapproved of Blaine bringing a third party into their conversation, but the stranger's expression softened slightly at Blaine's grinning face.

"Have another drink, dude," he said in a surprisingly friendly voice, "Let loose a little."

Kurt straightened his back indignantly. "I'll have you know that —"

The man's companion leaned over to assess the situation. "What's going on?"

"He won't drink with me," Blaine pouted.

"He won't drink with him," the first man repeated.

"He won't drink with him?" the second man said incredulously.

"Good lord," Kurt muttered.

"Either you drink," said a third, African-American man, "Or we make Thad over here go up and sing karaoke."

"And you do _not _want to hear Thad sing karaoke," said the first man. The second man — Thad, clearly — glared menacingly at both of them.

"There's karaoke here?" Blaine said, suddenly very excited.

"Don't encourage him," Kurt scolded the three bikers in identical leather jackets.

"Have a drink," said Thad, "And we'll let your boyfriend do a karaoke duet with Trent."

"How is that supposed to be convincing?" Kurt asked. The first man looked slightly hurt.

"How dare you," he said, "I'm a _very _good duet partner, thank you very much."

Blaine realized belatedly that Kurt hadn't corrected Thad when he had called Blaine Kurt's boyfriend, but he didn't have time to vocalize this because Trent was speaking.

"I've got an idea. Why don't we all karaoke together?"

"I'm down," Thad said. "David?"

The African-American man looked over at Kurt. "I'm in if _he's _in."

"If I won't even take another drink what makes you think I'd _sing_ with all of you?"

"You like singing, though," Blaine interjected, suddenly remembering one of Kurt's three hobbies.

Trent went on as though he hadn't heard Blaine. "That can be easily remedied. Bartender!"

Sam was one step ahead of them, bringing a second Appletini over to set in front of Kurt.

"What — no, I—" Kurt spluttered uselessly.

"Drinks on us if you join us for karaoke!" Thad declared. They all, Blaine included, looked at Kurt in anticipation.

Kurt sighed, shaking his head. "I guess I can't argue with that," he said, and downed half the glass in one gulp.

Ten minutes later found all five of them up on stage, stumbling somewhat uncoordinatedly around the stage to the loud encouragement of the other bar-goers.

"_I wanna talk to you," _Blaine recited as the three leather-clad men did some half-assed version of a harmony behind him.

"_The last time we talked, Mr. Smith, you reduced me to tears," _Kurt replied, _"I promise you it won't happen again."_

Blaine took over the first verse, chasing Kurt around the stage as Trent, Thad, and David followed them, doo-wopping in the background. Finally, Kurt pushed Blaine aside and wove in and out of the three men.

"_I tried to be like Grace Kelly," _He sang.

"_Aaah..." _the bikers chorused.

"_But all her looks were too sad,_" Kurt sang, pulling a clownish face as the three chorused again in response.

"_So I tried a little Freddie,_" Kurt sang, and was met with a chorus of hums before he continued into the chorus.

"_I've gone identity mad!"_

Blaine was so completely awed by Kurt performing (_his _Kurt) that he had to be jostled by David to remind him he was still on Earth and not on Cloud 9. Blaine shook his muddled head and joined in with the other three, backing Kurt up as he danced about the stage.

The entirety of the song played on, consisting mainly of the five of them gallivanting around the stage in theatrics, dancing with one another and taking turns singing and harmonizing.

By the end of it they were parading off the stage and through the wildly enthusiastic crowd, Kurt leading the way and blowing kisses at the men and women who wolf-whistled in their direction.

As the song ended, they reached the door. _"Come on Humphrey,"_ Kurt recited as he roughly pulled Blaine to him with an arm around his shoulders, "_We're leaving."_

"_Cachinggggg!_" Blaine drawled with a fist pump, and was pushed promptly by David and Trent onto Kurt and out into the night.

The air was significantly chillier outside than in the bar, but Blaine didn't notice or care.

"Race you to the beach," he slurred, tripping over his feet to run down the sloping street ahead of Kurt.

Kurt moaned in protest, but stumbled after him anyway, trying his best to catch up, and keenly aware of the fact that Blaine was far too quick a drunk runner for his own good.

Blaine ran the short length of the town and across the wooden pier, taking the steps down to the cool sand two at a time and nearly falling straight onto his face. Hearing Kurt's footsteps on the stairs behind him he laughed in panic and, with a little shout, scrambled back to his feet and plowed off through the sand.

The soft dunes slowed him down though, and Kurt's long strides got the better of him.

He had almost made it to the high tide line when Kurt tackled him, sending them rolling over each other into the waves.

They were both choking with laughter by the time they came to a stop, Kurt collapsed on top of Blaine, chilly water rushing past and soaking their clothes.

"Brrrr," Blaine said weakly, gasping for breath, "That's cold."

"Not really," Kurt breathed, nuzzling down into Blaine's neck. Blaine looped his arms lazily around Kurt's waist.

"Still feel like a waste'a space?" Blaine said absentmindedly, shivering as another wave rolled around them.

Kurt's head moved against his neck, and Blaine hoped he was shaking it "no."

The cold of the water was sobering him up quickly, and he was becoming very aware of Kurt's solid weight on top of him; the soft puffs of air against his neck; the toes wiggling against his own.

"Kurt," Blaine whispered.

"Mm," Kurt hummed shortly.

"Would it be weird if I kissed you?"

"Why would it be weird?" Kurt asked, pulling away to look down at him quizzically.

Blaine, temporarily distracted by the moonbeams in Kurt's ruffled, damp, sandy, hair, paused before replying. "Because you're a figment of my overactive imagination."

For the first time, Kurt smiled at the term. "Are you overactively imaginingkissing me right now?"

"Yeah," Blaine said softly. "But I don't want it to happen just because I'm thinking about it in my head."

Kurt pondered this. "Then close your eyes."

Blaine obeyed, and Kurt continued. "Don't think, just feel."

This wasn't a very pleasurable option for Blaine, considering that the water crashing against him was icy and pushing sand in places that it should never, _ever _be, but he did his best, closing his eyes and letting the water sink him lower into the sand.

He started when he felt the barest pressure of lips against his own.

Blaine chased Kurt's lips as they disappeared, but when they came back they were smiling against Blaine's. He sighed, parting his lips and Kurt took the invitation, slotting their mouths together softly and bringing a hand up to Blaine's cheek to angle him better. Blaine could barely even feel the icy sting of cold anymore; everything felt warm and fluttery as thrilling sparks warmed his stomach, butterflies dancing and fingers twisting in the back of Kurt's soaking shirt. He tried to press closer, whining when Kurt broke away to laugh breathlessly before diving back in with purpose, sliding his tongue into Blaine's mouth and humming in content.

The kiss built in heat and tension until a particularly forceful wave inched them up the coast a few inches and they broke apart, breath mingling.

"'M freezing," Kurt murmured, and Blaine could feel his lips shaking against his own.

"Me t-too," Blaine said, smiling as his teeth began to chatter.

Kurt rolled off Blaine and helped him to his feet. Leaning heavily on one another and giggling as their feet got tangled every few steps, they began to make their way back across the sand and up the street to the apartment.

By the time they reached the front door they were shaking violently and it took three times as long for their combined fumbling fingers to get the key in the lock. They groaned in relief when they finally fell into the warm apartment, and barely remembered to lock the door behind them before heading straight to the bedroom.

"Need t'shower," Kurt murmured, slumping down on the bed and peeling off his soaked jeans.

"No time," Blaine sighed, already down to his underwear and climbing into bed, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin.

"Gross," Kurt protested, though there wasn't much heart in it.

"First thing in the morning," Blaine reassured him, eyes slipping closed as Kurt's shirt came off, "Promise."

"'Kay," Kurt said, snuggling up next to Blaine under the covers. Blaine started when an arm wound its way around his bare waist and he couldn't help but remember what he had been concerned about earlier. Just how much control did he have over Kurt? And was it all due to his overactive imagination, or did Burt's mysterious typewriter have something to do with it?

The extra warmth of Kurt's body made it hard to stay focused, though. Blaine struggled to keep his train of thought but found it slowly slipping away and, lulled by the rise and fall of Kurt's chest beside him, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_Ugh I hate hate **hate** that I can't ever keep up with a regular publishing schedule, and what I hate even more is that it's always because of the same excuses (i.e. college/boy/stress/friends), and the thing I hate most is that this is the last chapter I have written and I don't know when I'll be able to write more or if my lovely beta Lonnie will even be able to edit while he's in Japan. _

_But please accept this meager somewhat filler chapter and try not to be mad or discouraged. I'll finish this story eventually, somehow. I love you all!_

_Read, review, and enjoy!_

* * *

Blaine woke up with his body hot and his head aching.

As if the sunlight streaming into his face and turning the inside of his eyelids red wasn't bad enough, he felt as if he were snuggled right up to a space heater under the heavy comforter.

He grumbled in discontent and reached back to dislodge whatever pillow had gone astray in the night but, to his shock, found long planes of smooth skin instead.

Kurt hummed contentedly at the touch and wiggled closer, tightening the arm around Blaine's middle and molding the front of his body to the back of Blaine's. Blaine's head swam, and bits of last night came back to him like mis-matched puzzle pieces as he felt Kurt's nose nuzzle against his neck, toes nudging his own, and against Blaine's ass —

_Oh. _

That definitely wasn't a stray pillow.

Blaine flushed hotter (if that was even possible) as Kurt woke up slowly, fidgeting here and there, breath halting momentarily when he realized where he was, and finally pressing a tentative kiss to the very top of Blaine's spine.

Blaine was frozen, the rate at which his heart was beating enough to outmatch the pounding in his head. Kurt seemed to take this as a silent invitation, because he slid his hand to where Blaine's rested on the mattress, tangling their fingers in and out of each other as he pressed small kisses up Blaine's neck. He nipped at Blaine's earlobe, breathing out nervously and Blaine's eyes fluttered shut...

"_Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, everything that's wonderful —"_

Kurt huffed a breath of frustration as Blaine fell out of bed, tangled in sheets and scrambling to find his phone. He finally found it singing merrily from the pocket of his jeans on the floor.

"Hello?" he gasped, coughing when his voice came out raspier than usual.

"Blainey!" Cooper sing-songed on the other line.

"Cooper, this better be important," he growled. He glanced back at Kurt who, caught in the act of staring at Blaine's mostly naked body, blushed and smiled. Blaine giggled a little and Kurt smiled wider, showing his teeth before rolling his eyes.

"_Go back to sleep," _Blaine mouthed, and Kurt complied, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his head. Blaine watched Kurt turn over with a soft smile, feeling a small sense of calm wash over him.

" — ainey. _Blainey,_" Cooper was saying.

"Huh, what?" Blaine stammered, focusing back on what his brother was saying.

"You're _late._"

Blaine frowned, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. It read 10:37AM. "Late for what?"

"For work. You know I can't pay you for the time you're not here, little bro. I know it sucks that you have to switch one of your night shifts for a morning one every week but it's not my fault, you have to believe me. It's Nick, he just —"

But Blaine was already hanging up, already up and running before he was fully off the floor. Ignoring the sandy feeling in his mouth and between his toes, he got dressed in new clothes from (his side of) the dresser, brushed his teeth, and splashed on a careless amount of cologne and deodorant in three minutes flat.

Being careful not to wake Kurt, who appeared to be asleep again under his pillow, Blaine grabbed his PizMo apron off the hook on the closet door and dashed down the hall and into the kitchen.

He downed a couple of Aspirin with a glass of chilly water, stuffed his keys into his pocket, and picked out a sweater from the coat closet, muttering urgent obscenities to himself. In all of the chaos of the previous day he had completely forgotten about his weekly morning shift. He knew Cooper didn't really care if he came in late, even with a hangover. In fact, Coop would be more likely to congratulate him for getting out of the house than scold him for tardiness. But Blaine almost wished his brother would get angry instead; he kind of deserved it, sacrificing an hour of pay for a wild night out of drinking. And singing. And dancing. And kissing on the beach with Kurt, who was...

"Where are you going?"

Blaine started at Kurt's voice, fumbling with the buttons of his cardigan uselessly. "I'm late for work, I completely forgot and — I'm sorry. I'll be back in a few hours so we can — can... can..."

Blaine turned around to find Kurt, still looking beach-rumpled and clad in only underwear and the t-shirt Blaine had carelessly cast aside last night, slowly striding over, hips swaying in what Blaine considered to be a _very _unfair way.

Kurt finally reached Blaine and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his mouth.

"Have a good day at work, honey," he said with a smirk.

On instinct, Blaine grinned and slid a hand around Kurt's bare hip. "Is this a regular thing now?"

Kurt raised his eyebrows, smiling coyly. "Well that's up to you. Do you want it to be?"

Blaine's stomach and smile dropped unexpectedly and his hand retreated instantly from Kurt's hip. Icy dread flooded his gut as he stuttered, "I — I have to go. I'm late."

"Blaine —" but before Kurt could protest further, Blaine was out the door and out of sight.

Blaine shook violently as he jogged down the street, and not because of the chilly morning fog. His lips were stinging where Kurt had kissed him and he raised icy fingers to them. His bottom lip trembled under his fingertips and he leaned against the wall of the apartment complex for support, gasping in deep breaths.

He hadn't considered that in creating Kurt, he had essentially made a potential _slave._

But Blaine didn't _want _that. He didn't want Kurt to bend to his will. He wanted Kurt to have a mind of his own. He wanted Kurt to be the character he had been inspired to write, but now Blaine didn't know how to make sure that happened without manipulating Kurt's mind.

He forced himself to calm down, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he drew long, shaky breaths. Kurt's words from last night floated across his mind:

"_Don't think, just feel."_

"Sounds like something I would say," Blaine muttered to himself as he began walking again, pushing the ghostlike memory of Kurt's lips from his mind.

"Wow, you made it here in record time," Cooper beamed as he handed Blaine his apron. "I couldn't have called you more than five minutes ago — what's that smell?"

Blaine ran a hand through his bushy hair anxiously, tuning his brother out as he tried to sign in to the register with shaking fingers.

Cooper leaned over the counter and took a deep whiff of Blaine, wrinkling his nose. Blaine didn't seem to notice.

"Uh, did you happen to shower today?" Cooper asked curiously. "Or in the past forty-eight hours at all? You smell like a dive bar."

"Wha—?" Blaine said dazedly, finally snapping his head up to look at his brother.

Cooper looked mildly concerned for a moment, before breaking into a grin.

"Oh Blainers," he cooed, "Did you get drunk last night?"

Blaine blinked slowly.

Cooper slung an arm around him. "Unfocused? Twitchy? Lethargic? Smelly? You've got a _hangover, _Blainey!"

"Ouch, shut _up_. No shit Sherlock. And don't call me that," Blaine grumbled, shrugging Cooper off and rolling his eyes, trying to focus on counting the bills in the register.

"You know, I could be scolding you for unprofessionalism," Cooper said generously, "But instead I'm choosing to congratulate you. This is the first day of the rest of your _life, _little bro."

"This isn't my first hangover, Coop, nor is it the first time I've ever gone out," Blaine said wearily, wiping down the counter with the damp rag slung over the cabinet door below the register.

"You're right. But it _is _your first time getting laid since college."

Blaine choked on nothing, grip on the wet rag slipping so that he fell half-across the counter and stumbled on his feet.

"Who said anything about getting laid?" Blaine asked quickly, voice cracking inopportunely.

Cooper leaned in conspiratorially, raising his fingers to hook into air quotes. "Your new _roommate?_ Come on, Blainey. Just because I play dumb people on T.V. doesn't mean I _am _one."

Blaine spluttered uselessly for a moment before stuttering, "I-I told you what happened, Cooper. He came out of _nowhere."_

"I'm sure he did," his brother chuckled, wiggling his eyebrows over his shoulder as he turned to head back into the kitchen.

"_Coop,_" Blaine groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You're not _listening _to me."

"Sorry, can't hear you!" Cooper yelled back, and Blaine huffed out a frustrated breath, crossing his arms and slumping down into the stool behind the register.

His dream come true was beginning to feel more like a nightmare.

It was a slow morning, with only a few families and couples scattered around the restaurant tables, pondering menus. The street outside was empty; residents wouldn't be roaming the town until the sun came out later in the afternoon.

He spent his lunch break actively avoiding Cooper, allowing himself a ten-minute stroll down the street as he nibbled on a piece of pizza.

Once back inside and perched on the stool once more, Blaine resisted the urge to close his eyes against the bright white light of the overcast day filtering through the open door; fought against lolling his head back against the wall to ease the ebbing pressure in his head. His stomach churned, and he hoped it was because his stomach was gratefully accepting the food. He still felt like he was coated in salt and sand from the beach, felt like his very brain was waterlogged and like it was rolling around in time to the pounding in his temples: Back and forth, back and forth, back and...

"Hey uh, Blainey?"

"Don' callmezat," Blaine slurred, head snapping up from where he had dozed off leaning back on the stool against the wall. He tipped dangerously when he saw the awkward-looking line of people staring expectantly at him.

Cooper frowned at Blaine as he scrambled to serve the customers one by one, a look of mild concern that rarely graced his face touching his features.

He placed a hand on his Blaine's shoulder, retreating quickly when he twitched underneath him.

"You know," Cooper began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously like Blaine sometimes did, "I think maybe you're a little more under the weather than I thought."

"I'm fine," Blaine insisted, though his drooping eyes and haphazard hair seemed to think differently.

"Go home," Cooper said in a gentle voice, and then, as if realizing he was being too melancholy, slapped Blaine on the back bracingly with a sparkling smirk. "I'm sure your new roommate is waiting for you."

Blaine's heart jolted anxiously as the prospect of greeting Kurt after his quick getaway a few hours ago came to the forefront of his mind. "I can stay until the end of my shift," he said quickly.

"It's only forty-five minutes early anyway," Cooper said, bumping Blaine off the stool with his hip and taking over.

Blaine opened his mouth, but closed it again. He hadn't realized he had slept for so long. "Please Coop," he tried. "I need the money."

"You know I'll give you all the tips anyway," Cooper said dismissively, and when Blaine tried to protest again he snatched the hat off Blaine's head and held it out of his reach.

"I won't take no for an answer," he warned, and with a last withering glare, Blaine retired his apron to the hook behind the counter and snatched the small amount of money from his brother's outstretched hand.

—

The first thing that hit Blaine when he cautiously eased open the door to his apartment was the warm scent of freshly baked cookies. As if a switch had flipped in his body he instantly relaxed, succumbing easily to the wafting smell of comfort enveloping him.

Kurt was sitting at the circular dining table, watching him carefully and wringing his hands. Blaine jumped at the sight of him, a twinge of panic flaring once more in his chest, but Kurt stood slowly, a hand raised in a calming gesture.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"For what?" Blaine asked automatically.

Kurt blushed and looked down at his shoes. "For being so... forward… this morning."

Blaine let out a long breath and shook his head. "No, you're not — I'm sorry, too. For being so... twitchy."

Kurt relaxed a little at this, heading into the kitchen. "I noticed. And since I had my freak out yesterday, I figured you were bound to have one too, sooner or later."

He slid several perfectly baked cookies from the tray on the counter onto a plate and poured two glasses of milk. Blaine watched his actions in awe, stunned breathless at how at home Kurt seemed in Blaine's — in _their _kitchen. Watching Kurt, and the ease with which he arranged the cookies into a symmetrical pattern on the plate… he was more detailed and complex than Blaine could ever have constructed him in his own head.

He was _real. _

Kurt carried the precariously perched load over to where Blaine was reeling, sinking down into a chair to appease his shaky knees. "Your favorite comfort food," he offered as explanation.

"You know me so well," Blaine said softly, eyes widening at the snack before them.

Kurt blanched slightly. "Sorry, I know that's still weird —"

"Don't," Blaine interrupted, briefly touching Kurt's hand with his own before picking up a cookie. "It's sweet. Thank you."

Kurt only smiled at this, and reached for a cookie himself.

They ate their first cookies in thick, if not companionable silence. Finally, after taking a sip of his milk, Blaine said, "I think I owe you an explanation for running out on you today."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, delicately dipping another cookie into his milk. Instead of the sarcastic quip Blaine knew was on the tip of his tongue, Kurt held back. "It was... a bit startling."

Blaine took a deep breath, fidgeting a little in his seat. "It's not that your... advances —" he cringed apologetically at his _ridiculous _word choice — "Were unwelcome. They were just a bit... jarring."

Kurt narrowed his eyes, and at once Blaine knew he'd said the wrong thing. "Not — I mean — I just —" He took another cookie, desperate for something to do with his hands. "I've been thinking a lot about this." He gestured between him and Kurt. "And it seems to be kind of... complicated."

"I'm not following," Kurt said slowly.

Blaine took a bite of his cookie, and swallowed it before continuing. "When I wrote you, Kurt, I wrote you with the intent of making you love me."

Kurt's expression was hard to read, but he said nothing so Blaine soldiered on after a deep sigh into his glass of milk.

"When you were just a character in my head, that wasn't a problem. It was just a... plot device. A silly fantasy, but the first inspiration I'd had in a long time. But now that you're _real, _the idea of making you love me, it's..." Blaine's voice broke into a whisper, _"sickening."_

Kurt nodded once, his chin tilted up as he looked down resolutely at the plate of cookies. "So what you're saying is that you're afraid that my feelings for you in real life wouldn't be genuine?"

"Not _just _your feelings," Blaine admitted. "Anything about you. What you say, what you do, how you act, how you _think..._"

"But that's your job," Kurt reasoned, "As an author. You are, for all intents and purposes, my creator."

"It _used _to be my job," Blaine countered, "Until you appeared in my house with a mind of your own."

Kurt nodded, seeing the point.

"I just —" Blaine continued, "I want to be able to let you kiss me without worrying about whether you did it because I wanted you to or you wanted to. Or because I wanted you to want to..." Blaine groaned, frowning at his complicated train of thought.

Kurt boldly reached across the table to lay Blaine's hand in his. "I've been thinking about this too," he confessed, "And your concerns are certainly relevant, but I have a theory."

Blaine eyed him suspiciously, taking another cookie. "What kind of theory?"

"Hear me out," Kurt instructed, taking his hand away to take another cookie and sit up in his chair. "I agree that the amount of power you hold over me in this situation is intimidating. But it's like you said — none of your other characters have come to life before."

"Right," Blaine frowned, missing the point, "So?"

"So," Kurt repeated, leaning forward slightly, "What's different this time? What did you have this time that you didn't all those other times?"

Blaine frowned. "The... the typewriter?"

Kurt nodded, bouncing back a little in his seat as his lips mashed into a happy grin.

"So as long as I don't type anything on that machine," Blaine realized, "You'll be completely in control of yourself?"

Kurt nodded once more, pleased with himself.

Blaine considered this as he reached for the last cookie on the plate. It _did _make sense. After all, Blaine _did _have ideas about Kurt's character that he _hadn't _typed out yet, and Kurt didn't know any of those, just what was neatly printed out on the various sheets Blaine used to brainstorm. That led to the only logical conclusion: all this was the magic typewriter's doing. He wondered vaguely if Burt had known this all along.

"It doesn't matter who's writing you," Blaine concluded, "Because the weird voodoo magic is all in the typewriter."

"It could have been you, or Cooper, or the next door neighbor who wrote it," Kurt supplied.

"And no matter what it was, it would have still come true," Blaine finished in awe. He chuckled a little breathlessly at how much of the weight upon his shoulders had just lifted.

"Takes some of the pressure off, doesn't it?" Kurt smiled.

"Yes," Blaine breathed. "You're a genius, Kurt."

"Only because you wrote me that way," Kurt said snarkily.

"Too soon," Blaine said wearily, downing the remainder of his milk.

"So it's decided," Kurt declared. "No more typewriter."

"No more typewriter," Blaine parroted, ignoring the twinge of guilt he felt at abandoning Burt's gift, along with his newest writing project. He'd figure something out.

"We'll take this slow," Kurt reassured him, eyes twinkling at Blaine over his cup as he sipped at his milk.

As he set down his glass, though, he frowned.

"What?" Blaine asked.

"There's a piece of cookie at the bottom of my glass."

Blaine laughed, and Kurt smiled as he got up. "I'll go get a spoon," he said, heading over to the kitchen.

Blaine sighed, leaning back in his chair and feeling much more at ease than before, even if a little bit of concern was still lodged somewhere in his chest. Sure, he couldn't write about Kurt anymore. And he'd have to abandon the typewriter. But his laptop was still fully functional, and he could easily find inspiration elsewhere.

He stubbornly stamped down the little voice that reminded him he'd gone two years without a good idea before the typewriter. Instead he looked over to Kurt, who was standing hesitantly in the middle of the kitchen with his brow creased.

"Spoon?" Blaine reminded him.

"Yeah..." Kurt said, almost to himself, brow furrowing further as he massaged his temple lightly.

Blaine frowned, remembering how just yesterday Kurt had been opening and closing drawers and cabinets with ease as he cooked pancakes.

"First drawer to the right of the stove," Blaine said slowly.

"Right," Kurt said absently, retrieving a spoon and returning to the table. He seemed to have forgotten about the cookie drowning in his milk, though, because his eyes were sliding shut as he pressed at his forehead with both hands.

"Everything okay?" Blaine asked, concerned.

"Yeah." Kurt shook himself slightly. "Just a headache, all of a sudden."

Blaine considered this for a moment. "There's IbuProfen in the cupboard."

"Yes," Kurt nodded, looking a little irritated, "I know where it is."

Blaine tilted his head curiously, scrutinizing the twitch in Kurt's temple as he fished out the soggy cookie and spooned it into his mouth. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Kurt waved him off. "Fine, fine, don't worry."

Blaine eyed him suspiciously, but let it go. Kurt drained the last of his milk and set down the glass, and Blaine giggled.

"What?" Kurt glared.

"Milk moustache," Blaine explained, gesturing vaguely around his own mouth.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and, very _unfairly_, ran his tongue along his upper lip, taking his time.

"Better?" Kurt asked, a tantalizingly innocent smile spread across his lips.

Blaine swallowed. "Y-you missed a spot," he lied.

"Oh?" Kurt teased, leaning forward out of his seat towards Blaine with crossed arms on the table. "Where?"

Shyly, Blaine leaned forward to meet him in the middle and after a short moment of hesitation, kissed the corner of Kurt's mouth lightly.

He pulled away and Kurt looked torn for a moment, but sat back in his seat. Blaine followed suit.

"All better?" Kurt said, smiling softly.

Blaine managed to meet Kurt's gaze from under his eyelashes.

"All better," he confirmed.

* * *

_TBC_


End file.
